I would hope that the Government would still support those small

Host: The rain was falling softly on the cobbled street, turning the city’s old stone theaters into mirrors of their former glory. Marquee lights flickered like fading memories, and the air carried the mingled scent of rainwater and dust, of history that refused to die quietly. Down the narrow lane stood the Lyric House Theatre — boarded in places, posters peeling, a once-grand façade now whispering stories of applause long vanished.

Inside, the stage lights sputtered weakly to life. The velvet seats were torn, but still waiting — like old lovers who never stopped believing. Jack stood in the center of the stage, hands in his pockets, his footsteps echoing in the vast, hollow air. Jeeny sat on the edge of the stage, legs dangling, her eyes bright but heavy with thought.

Jeeny: “Adrian Dunbar once said, ‘I would hope that the Government would still support those small, struggling independent theatre companies and also maybe look to the built architecture of the theaters because we can't let them get into disrepair. They are part of the fabric of the country.’”

Jack: (looking around) “Fabric of the country, huh? Seems the fabric’s been left out in the rain a bit too long.”

Host: His voice echoed — rough, sardonic, but laced with a quiet ache. He kicked at the dust, sending up a cloud that glowed faintly in the dim light like old applause trying to rise again.

Jeeny: “You sound bitter, Jack.”

Jack: “Not bitter — realistic. Look around. The government’s funding tech startups while the last few theaters crumble. Who needs Shakespeare when you can have stock options?”

Jeeny: (softly) “You talk as if theater’s dead. But look at this place — it’s still breathing. You can feel it, can’t you? The ghosts of stories, the laughter, the heartbreak — they’re all here.”

Host: A raindrop leaked through a crack in the ceiling, falling onto the stage between them. The sound — small but clear — seemed to punctuate the silence that followed.

Jack: “Nostalgia doesn’t pay for plaster, Jeeny. These old theaters — they’re beautiful, sure, but they’re relics. The world’s moved on.”

Jeeny: “No, Jack. The world forgot to look back. That’s not the same thing.”

Host: She slid off the stage, walking slowly up the aisle, running her fingers along the rows of worn seats, her touch gentle, reverent.

Jeeny: “Do you remember your first time on stage?”

Jack: (after a pause) “Yeah. I was terrified. Couldn’t breathe until the lights hit me. And then suddenly — it felt like flying.”

Jeeny: “That’s what this place does. It turns fear into flight. How can that not be worth saving?”

Host: A soft wind moved through the broken window panes, carrying with it the faint hum of the city beyond — horns, footsteps, life. Inside, the silence was holy, like a paused heartbeat.

Jack: “Art doesn’t feed people, Jeeny. That’s why governments stop funding it first. You can’t eat applause.”

Jeeny: “No, but you can starve without it. You think a country survives on money alone? Culture is the soul’s ration, Jack. Without art, a nation becomes efficient — but empty.”

Host: Her words struck like slow thunder — not loud, but deep, resonating in the rafters of the forgotten theater.

Jack: (quietly) “You make it sound like saving a building saves a soul.”

Jeeny: “Sometimes it does. These walls — they’ve held generations of voices. Every play, every poem, every song — it’s part of our collective memory. When a theater dies, part of our humanity goes dark with it.”

Host: The lights flickered, briefly illuminating a poster still clinging to the wall — “Hamlet – Final Night” — the ink faded, but the tragedy eternal.

Jack: “You know, when I was a kid, my father brought me here. He said art makes people honest. I never understood that until I grew up and realized most people are afraid of honesty.”

Jeeny: “And that’s why theater matters. Because on stage, honesty isn’t weakness — it’s the point. It’s where we tell the truth dressed as fiction.”

Jack: “You think truth can still sell tickets?”

Jeeny: “Truth doesn’t sell tickets, Jack. It buys souls.”

Host: The rain outside intensified, drumming a slow rhythm on the roof — like the audience calling for an encore.

Jack: “But why save these old buildings? Can’t art evolve? Go digital? Streamed performances, virtual sets — people can watch from home now.”

Jeeny: “But that’s not theater. That’s consumption. Theater isn’t about watching — it’s about witnessing. You share breath with the actors, heartbeat with strangers. It’s the last place in the world where people are still fully present.”

Host: Her voice trembled, not with fragility, but with conviction — the kind born of love that refuses extinction.

Jack: (sighing) “Maybe Dunbar’s right. Maybe we need to protect this… not because it’s useful, but because it reminds us how to feel.”

Jeeny: “Exactly. Theaters aren’t monuments — they’re living hearts. When we let them decay, we’re saying that memory doesn’t matter, that beauty can be neglected.”

Host: A sudden gust pushed open one of the side doors. The rainlight spilled in, washing across the stage. Jack walked toward it, standing where the spotlight once burned brightest.

Jack: (softly) “It’s strange. Standing here feels like standing inside time itself. Like every performance that ever happened still echoes somewhere between these walls.”

Jeeny: (joining him) “Because it does. The stage never forgets. It’s been waiting for someone to listen again.”

Host: For a long moment, they stood there, side by side — two small figures in a cathedral of forgotten dreams. The rain eased, and the sound of dripping water filled the space with rhythm, like the faint pulse of something coming back to life.

Jack: “Maybe we should fix it, then. Patch the roof. Light the stage. Invite the ghosts back for one more show.”

Jeeny: (smiling) “Not ghosts, Jack. People. The ones who’ve forgotten how to believe in something that doesn’t turn a profit.”

Host: She looked around, her eyes shining, her voice a whisper meant only for the old walls.

Jeeny: “We can’t let these places die. They’re not ruins — they’re reminders. They tell us that once, people came together in the dark — not to consume, but to feel.”

Jack: “And maybe that’s what a country really is — not borders or laws, but shared moments of wonder.”

Jeeny: “Yes. And if we lose those, we lose the part of ourselves that’s worth governing.”

Host: The camera pulled back, rising above the stage, above the empty rows and tattered curtains, capturing the fragile beauty of decay and defiance intertwined.

The two figures remained below — Jack and Jeeny, facing the dimming light — two souls speaking for something older than themselves.

And as the screen faded, the rain softened into silence, leaving behind only the heartbeat of Adrian Dunbar’s truth:

that theaters, like people, are not kept alive by money,
but by memory, faith, and the refusal to forget
that they are part of the fabric of the country,
woven from the shared breath
of those who still believe
in the beauty of gathering together in the dark
to create a little light.